


Flick of a blade

by drcalvin



Series: A game of chicken (with knives) [1]
Category: Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Antagonism, Dirty Talk, Edgeplay, Frottage, Knifeplay, Knifeplay Game of Chicken, Love/Hate, M/M, Mindfuck, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Oral Knifeplay, Outdoor Sex, PWP, Switchblade, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6143374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcalvin/pseuds/drcalvin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Put Tybalt and Mercutio together, and there has always been enough tension to cut with a knife. When they meet outside the bathhouse, and an actual knife is brought into game things escalate to previously unimaginable levels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The bathhouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> Thanks to Carmarthen for inspiration, encouragement, enablement and beta!

They didn’t usually meet like this, running into each other behind the bathhouse that was the closest thing Verona had to neutral ground. (Church wasn’t for fighting, but it was definitely for upstaging and gossip.)

Mercutio had a knee out of whack, courtesy of a Capulet, a slippery roof and his uncle’s desire to pave the entire city. It was healing nicely, but limping around had done a number on his muscles and an afternoon in the steam had been just the thing.

Why Tybalt had suddenly ditched his entourage, he never found out, but Tybalt and logic had never had much business with each other.

Which probably explained why he’d suddenly accosted Mercutio, who was waiting for his agreed-upon ride (hey, he didn’t spend hours soaking just to hobble home and ruin it all), for once as peaceful as he liked to claim.

“What the hell was that about?” Tybalt didn’t quite growl the words at him, but he came close.

He crowded Mercutio against the wall, clearly having failed to take in the relaxing properties of the bath, and looked even more pissed off than usual. Considering the levels of pissed off Tybalt could reach just by laying eyes on a Montague, that was…Mercutio would’ve been impressed with himself if he had any idea of what he’d been doing. Could you soak offensively?

“Are you disagreeing with anything in particular, or just my general existence?”

“That, in there!”

“Eloquent as always.”

Whoops – that went from word to deed a little quicker than usual. Tybalt grabbed his jacket (he’d been taught years ago that if you laid hands on Mercutio, playtime was over) and pressed him against the wall. Despite the rough plaster playing merry hell with the finish of his jacket, Mercutio felt his grin spread. Tybalt was really quite upset. How de _light_ ful; he must figure out what he’d done.

“There are nicer ways to ask,” he purred, and let himself go just a little slack, a little soft. A surefire way to get Tybalt bothered.

Tybalt’s mouth worked angrily, and then turned into a prissy line. Mercutio wanted to slug him for that on principle. “Slut,” Tybalt said, hissed between clenched teeth. “You’ll let anyone touch you, won’t you?”

Mercutio’s mouth fell open. “I’m the slut? Me? Ex-fucking-cuse me, there’s not a whore in Verona who isn’t ready to offer an opinion on your performance, and not very flattering ones either!”

The pressure increased. “At least I don’t let old pervs ogle me like that! You – you were practically giving the whole bathhouse a show, you shameless…”

Oh. Ohh – Mercutio’s confusion coalesced into a vision of victory. “So that’s what bothers you? For the record, sweet Tybalt, I was in the baths for my health. Still carrying a little souvenir from last Tuesday, if you recall? Now, if any sad sack takes a look while I stretch, well….” He struck quickly, grabbing Tybalt’s belt buckle and yanking him close; fucker was half-hard, wouldn’t you know. Probably showed through his ridiculously tight leathers – had he waited for Mercutio? Lurked around outside, until he came out, keying himself up more and more? “Who’s the pervert here, hmm?”

He didn’t expect it when Tybalt’s response was to grind back, causing an entirely physical reaction. “You flaunt yourself constantly, Mercutio,” he breathed, slowly shifting his weight back and forth in a not entirely unpleasant way. “Vain, worthless creature…!”

See, this was what made Tybalt so annoying. Not only was he the horniest thing in Verona, he couldn’t even own half the shit he wanted to get up to.

“You know what?” Mercutio snapped. “Worthless isn’t a sexy word in my book, so perhaps go fuck yourself. Join the other sad pervs wanking at home, since you can’t be civil.” 

Mercutio spent a lot of time in the gym, and not all of it trying to whip Benvolio’s ass with a towel (they kept score). So when he braced himself against the wall and pushed Tybalt away, he was satisfied to see the bastard stumble back a step, confusion warring with upset on his face. 

Mercutio snickered at him. Tybalt always frowned so dramatically, a one-face show! Really, if he’d only been a bit less clenched-up Mercutio might even have considered giving him what he was drooling for; his sex faces must be hilarious.

“Don’t try this game with me, Mercutio!”

“I’m not playing it. Not with you, not with those old geezers who can barely tent their towels. Although if they did appreciate this fine body?” He preened and smiled as sweetly as he could, not missing how Tybalt’s eyes flicked down the length of him. “At least they were polite about it. So why not?” Teasingly slow – see, this was how you flaunted yourself – Mercutio detached himself from the wall. He licked his lips, then looked pointedly towards the main street. “Maybe I should find myself a nice grandpa? See if I can make him perk up with enough effort. I’ll let you know how –“

The flick of a switchblade was entirely unexpected, although Tybalt’s weight crushing him back against the wall wasn’t. Nor was the way his eyes had grown wild, or that he abandoned all caution and put his hand, fingers pressing against his collarbone, against Mercutio’s chest.

“Don’t you dare.”

Very slowly, Mercutio raised his right hand. He slid his eyes to the right too, ignoring Tybalt entirely to watch his fingers fold down until only the index remained pointed. Then, opening his mouth, still with exaggerated slowness, he touched the tip of his tongue.

Tybalt was still but for his heavy breathing. It must burn him something fierce to imagine Mercutio’s mouth wrapped around a saggy old prick and that knowledge – ahh, that was a drug that had caught Mercutio from the first taste. How vexing it was that Tybalt had looked his fill today, while Mercutio truly, honestly, had only been trying to work out the knots in his thighs and buttocks. Had he stared like this, the whites of his eyes visible all around? Had he sat there in the steam, cracked his knuckles in frustration, maybe crossed his legs…grown hard looking at Mercutio. Perhaps he’d instead focused on anger, given his jealousy free reign to keep himself decent. So many possibilities, and Mercutio hadn’t seen any of them.

With measured ease, Mercutio drew his finger along the flat of the blade. When he reached the pointed tip, he tapped it lightly. Needle-sharp. He refocused on Tybalt and smirked at the simmering lust written all over him. Carefully, he let his finger weigh against the tip, just a little, just so that it passed through the outer layers of skin until he could be sure to leave a bead of blood behind. It burned, but the expectant knot in Mercutio’s center burned hotter. He hadn’t seen what he drove Tybalt to in the bathhouse, but he’d watch each goddamn second of this.

“Tybalt?” he breathed, a pulse of want flashing though him when Tybalt swallowed. “Feel that? My spit coating your blade?”

“So what?”

“Maybe tomorrow, I’ll come back to this bathhouse. Maybe I’ll drop my towel and go to my knees on that floor, offering my mouth to any man who passes by.” The knife trembled and a thread of pain tugged at Mercutio’s awareness. “Maybe I’ll tell them that I’m there to serve, to use, to be fucked and discarded – and they’ll know I want it, that I can’t dream of anything better than to be their hungry, shameless, cocksucking little slut.” He paused, a giddy madness filling him until he tamped it down. Perhaps it still shone out of his eyes, his grin – Tybalt certainly stared at him as if he’d gone insane. Judging from the trembling tension in his body, he was right there beside Mercutio, ready to throw himself off the cliffs of sensible behavior.

“But, dear thing…even if I do? This,” Mercutio said slowly, over-enunciating each word as he tugged his finger loose and dabbed a drop of iron onto his own lips, “is the closest _you’ll_ ever come to knowing my mouth on your cock.”

It took a moment for Tybalt to parse that through the clouds of lust that dulled his mind. Mercutio could see it, drinking each realization with giddy triumph, as Tybalt’s features grew stiff and the beginning of a blush on those pallid cheeks turned into more familiar spots of anger.

When his teeth showed, when his chest heaved before a no doubt impressive bellow of anger, Mercutio put the lessons of his uncle’s guards to use; a hand at the wrist, one below the elbow, a step out and Tybalt’s shout changed tune. The knife fell from spasming fingers. 

He shouldn’t – ohh, run, Mercutio, run before you’re doomed (he’d been born doomed) – he paused to grab the knife, felt pain bloom along his thigh, thank God Tybalt’s kick missed his poor knee. Then he ran, ran like the wind, until expensive mansions rose around him and the crowds grew so thick and well-dressed that he could no longer shove them aside. His breath whistled in his throat and sweat was clinging to his back and dripping down his hair when Mercutio at last limped inside the castle, his knee a dull throb beneath him.

But he held Tybalt Capulet’s switchblade in his hand – and the image of his eyes, when he heard Mercutio’s offer of service to all and sundry, in his mind.


	2. At night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags carefully.

If you’d asked Tybalt yesterday, he’d have sworn that there were no bigger idiots on God’s green earth than the Montagues.

Then some guys tried to rob Giovanni when he stepped into an alley to take a leak.

The would-be ambushers were three. Gio, pants still open, handled the first, while Tybalt and the nearest brick wall took care of the other two. Peter and Alfredo, who’d lagged behind, didn’t even make it in time to assist.

Honestly. Dumber than Montagues.

He’d sent the boys to dump the rabble with Prince Escalus’ sergeant-at-arms. Gio, of course, it was his victory. Alfredo had to go along, because he was the biggest and someone needed to carry the guy who’d tried to get up again. Peter also had to go, because he was the one sensible enough to restrain Gio when he tried to piss on the captives in triumph.

For reasons involving whining Montagues (and a few cases of property damage) Tybalt deemed it safest to not tag along. It would be just his luck if one of the idiotic robbers accused the Capulets of attacking them. And if the wrong men were on shift tonight, he wouldn’t discount a few leading questions.

So he was walking home alone, enjoying the clean night air, still a little buzzed from the fight. It had felt good; righteous. 

The last thing Tybalt expected was for someone to step up to him in the shadow between street lights and lay a hands-length of steel across his throat. He froze for less than a heartbeat, which was enough for his assailant to grab hold of his arm and step too close.

"Hands where I can see them." While his mind was still trying to process what happened, and decide where he should strike, two more words were breathed against his hair: "Sweet Tybalt." Everything clicked into place.

"That’s my fucking knife." Tybalt yanked his arm loose and tried to step aside to give himself some space. "And it’s for stabbing, you idiot."

The tip nicked him along the jaw, then drew down to rest against his Adam’s apple. He resisted the compulsive urge to swallow and felt a hand close around his wrist. Not twisting yet, just holding.

"I know that," Mercutio said, "idiot."

"So now what? Gonna bring in your friends, have me pummeled?"

"Oh, no, no…well, that was perhaps the plan when we started following you, but someone else got there first." His voice deepened a little, that aggravating bubble of laughter rising below his words. Tybalt seethed, but there was still a sharp tip at his throat. "Very effective, you were. And delivering them to the authorities? How civic-minded."

"They didn’t know Gio had friends along," he muttered. "Next man mightn’t."

Another soft laugh, and the blade pricked his skin. "Such gallantry deserves it rewards! So I sent my friends home."

Mercutio shifted the blade until it pointed up, digging into the area beneath his jaw. When he tried to hold it there, while manhandling Tybalt into a better position, he was sloppy. Tybalt could’ve broken that grip, he should’ve…but Mercutio had twisted his arm behind him, pressing forward until Tybalt felt his own knuckles through his shirt, and he walked forward obediently. The right moment would come.

They reached the bright circle beneath the next street light and Mercutio pushed him carelessly against the wall.

Tybalt turned around and glared at him. "It’s still my knife." The knife in question came to rest against his face, point steadily aimed at his eye, yet Tybalt felt himself relax. If there wasn’t anyone else around, if Mercutio wanted to look at him…he wasn’t safe, but he didn’t expect cold-blooded murder. Not like this.

But facing Mercutio carried it’s own risks. The memory of the bathhouse pressed for attention, the knife reminding him of that day. Scattered images that wouldn’t leave him, of Mercutio stretching and bending, as if he was just waiting for any passing man to throw him down and plow him – Tybalt tamped down on the thought, focused instead on the cool steel against his face.

"I wondered, you know, if your wits had been boiled away entirely last time. Heatstroke, so to speak." Mercutio lowered his lashes, giving him an almost coy look. "But we can’t blame anything on that now, can we?"

Dignified silence was the only way to respond to that.

"So…what now? When the steam has parted and only the night can see us?"

Tybalt clamped his teeth around his first response, then managed (almost) evenly: "You’re the one with the knife."

"Yes! Yes, I am, good of you to point that out." 

He licked his lips, and moved the knife slowly over Tybalt’s face. Its edge wasn’t dull, but lacked the sharpness of Tybalt’s razor and scraped uncomfortably. The drag of the blade over his cheekbone, the tip still aimed unerringly at his eye, coupled with Mercutio’s fascinated stare raised every hair along his neck. 

"I’m the one with the knife." He tilted his head and licked his lips. Too late did Tybalt realize that the line of his gaze would be obvious. He snapped his eyes back up, now recognizing the familiar mockery. Damn him.

"We know, don’t we, where I stand regarding. Things."

That was not merely licking his lips; that was an invitation: a teasing, perverted invitation, like the rest of the clown.

"But what about you, sweet thing?"

"What?" Mercutio was too close, his hand loosely clasped in Tybalt’s shirt and that damned knife, a constant pressure on his awareness, broke up any logical thoughts.

"What would you do, with the right sort of persuasion?" The blade angled differently. It scraped again his skin again, with more pressure, this time leaving a stinging patch behind. Tybalt’s instincts screamed at him to fight, to struggle, but Mercutio’s trembling gasp when he moved the knife to dab his finger against the sore area kept his feet rooted to the paving stones.

"If you cut," Tybalt said, "cut me anywhere, you die."

"Doesn’t that depend on how obedient you are?"

Then the madman leaned forward on his toes, and flicked his tongue against the same spot. Tybalt flinched, arousal tying his insides into knots.

"As you’ve repeatedly pointed out," Mercutio said, giggling breathlessly, "it is your knife."

The blade slid slowly down his face; the flat of it this time. Cool and smooth against his overheated skin. He closed his mouth just before the flat of it pressed against his lips, and then Mercutio had him caught in the mockery of a kiss.

"How about it? Are you man enough?"

"Go fuck yourself," Tybalt said between his teeth. It came out muffled, but Mercutio understood him well enough.

"No. That’s not what you want."

Mercutio’s hand, cupping Tybalt through his trousers, drew an embarrassing reaction from him. He’d managed to keep himself mostly in check but against that steady squeeze, he felt himself grow terribly hard, far too quickly. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to reach for anger, shame, all the things he should feel. But Mercutio was fondling him and the world narrowed to his body: the hand on his cock, the steel against his mouth, and the rushing of blood in his ears.

As if from a distance, he heard Mercutio speak. "And, after careful consideration, I don’t think I want that either."

Tybalt’s eyes snapped open. Mercutio wore a crooked grin, and nodded pointedly – "C’mon, man?" – until he managed to detach his hand from the wall. Until his fingers brushed against the trousers and then, it took no effort at all to fondle and grab hold. Mercutio favored a looser style of clothes, but beneath the layers of fabric he was just as hard. 

He fit very well into Tybalt’s hand, and the thought of gripping him tighter, skin to skin, was distracting enough that Tybalt tried to speak. He’d not forgotten the knife, exactly, although he had not considered its sharpness enough. But the tiny pain where he nicked his lip was less distracting than the effect it had on Mercutio. He’d always been the better liar, but now the clown’s mask fell away and revealed how deep Mercutio had sunk. Beneath his affected lightness, Tybalt saw with dizzying clarity, brewed an unholy desire similar to his own. 

"I think," Mercutio breathed, "that must count as you cutting yourself?" He moved the knife back and forth, slowly, making sure to keep the pressure light so that only the flat of the blade touched Tybalt.

When he withdrew it a little, leaving space to speak, Tybalt could only give a small nod in agreement.

"So? If I’m ready to take a whole bathhouse – what will you take, proud Tybalt?"

Much more than he should. His grip was surely on the verge of too firm, his hand so tight above Mercutio’s cock that he imagined he could feel the pulse beat against it, all the way up his own arm, an echo to the mad racing of his own heart. Want accompanied it, and a madness that had awoken in the bathhouse and refused to be buried again. Because why else would Tybalt allow his head to rest against the wall, why else would he unlock his jaw and slowly open his mouth?

He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t – if it was another lie, another twisted game, he’d rather take the stiletto in his throat and bleed out than hear the ridicule that was to follow.

But there was only a sigh from Mercutio, and the slow drag of his hand up along Tybalt’s body, until he reached the bare skin of his throat. Until it turned into a caress, a gentle cupping motion with Mercutio’s thumb at the corner of his mouth.

"Open up," he whispered, adding a little pressure. "And…no sudden movements, please?" He thrust his hard cock against Tybalt’s hand in clarification. It was difficult, more than he’d ever admit, but he relaxed his grip. Only let his hand rest there, much too gently, against Mercutio’s hard flesh.

Madness.

Even before Mercutio laid the blade against his lips and Tybalt felt the slide of it, just a tiny movement until the tip scraped against his teeth, he knew he’d gone utterly mad. When it finally happened and he stood there and let himself be violated with his own knife, while Mercutio made a sound as if it really had been his cock that Tybalt was taking, they passed the border into an insanity beyond anything they’d ever experienced.

"I need…open, here, I’ll…"

His tongue brushed against Mercutio’s thumb, and the taste of it, that slight hint of salt and skin, was another shock. His breath was coming too fast, turning into pants, and wouldn’t that be a fine end to his disgrace? Tybalt Capulet, who’d bedded a hundred women, swooning at the taste of steel.

But Mercutio removed the blade. He still kept his thumb between Tybalt’s teeth, trusting that he wouldn’t take the chance to bite, and the fingers against his face were gentle, almost petting him. Then he re-angled his hand, the nail scraping against Tybalt’s teeth in a weak shadow of the knife-tip, and made him open his mouth even wider.

"There we go," he said, then laughed. But not in any of the thousand jeering ways Tybalt knew, only the same disbelieving little giggle he’d heard just before.

The knife felt even smoother against his lips this time, slick. Mercutio must have licked it again. He should’ve watched that, but when he began to open his eyes, Mercutio hushed him, babbled of treasures hidden and things better left unseen. Perhaps it was for the best; sensation and taste alone were already pushing him too far.

Tybalt felt the drag of the blade over his lower incisors, and shivered when it hit an uneven tooth; the sound was porcelain-thin but so loud it echoed through his entire being. He had to taste it, this cool intrusion, and was rewarded with a half-choked curse from Mercutio when he did. The blade itself had almost no flavor, and Mercutio drew it back before Tybalt managed to cut himself. Then, he moved it upwards, as if he was examining him from inside. Tapped the blade once, twice, against Tybalt’s right canine, until it felt as if his entire head was ringing with a soft note of steel. As Mercutio carefully repeated the investigation on the other side, the sound grew inside Tybalt; his teeth, his head, down his spine and out through every limb it rang, til it nearly shook him apart.

When Mercutio withdrew the blade and licked it, Tybalt could hear him; exaggerated sounds designed to tease. His balls grew tight with desire and it was a relief to feel the steel again on his lips, drawing all focus back to that deceptively light touch. The knife was perfectly centered this time. Mercutio’s hand silently demanded that he tip his head further back and Tybalt, sagging a little against the wall, acquiesced. 

The knife was too long to take safely in its entity, too long for more than the very end to enter him. But it still filled Tybalt’s mouth and mind when Mercutio pushed it inside at a different angle. He stopped, hovering between touch and not-touch, just behind Tybalt’s front teeth. Clenching his eyes shut, Tybalt waited.

"God above," Mercutio whispered, before he slowly, so slowly, slid the blade deeper inside. The tip moved along the roof of his mouth, catching at some unevenness and the familiar taste of iron bloomed. Not enough to stop Mercutio, if he even noticed.

Tybalt did not think he could make himself stop for anything now, not when his knees felt weak and his cock on the edge of coming untouched. Mercutio was inside him, was cutting his soul open on his own blade, and Tybalt could only stand there and take it all.

There was a line of fire in his mouth now, moving steadily against the softer parts hidden inside. Saliva was gathering and he should not swallow it, whatever he did, should not allow this insanity to lead him further to where he wanted to press his tongue against that blade (sharp, too sharp, he’d sharpened it himself only days before he lost it) and suck it.

A little wiggle, a retreat that left its own pattern of madness made pleasure, gave him much-needed space to breathe, to swallow. When Mercutio retraced the first path, his hand was so light that Tybalt did not even knew if he felt anything cutting, or merely the dream of steel.

Then – an obstruction, the curve of his mouth perhaps, something came in the way of the tip and caught unpleasantly. Another mouthful of iron, while the tingling became a little too much pain, and Tybalt failed to conceal his noise of distress.

Mercutio withdrew, not so quickly as to become careless, but without further play or teasing.

"Tybalt…."

When he opened his eyes, the world was half-swimming before him. Mercutio in the lamplight was all reds and yellows. Hell had sent him, Tybalt had time to think, surely he was some tempting sprite. The next moment, Mercutio proved his solidity and earthly origins by falling against him.

An overheated weight, pressure where Tybalt most needed it, and the blade held harmlessly aside. "You," Mercutio began, then found no words to continue, only hung on to Tybalt’s shoulder and thrust against him.

Feeling drunk, Tybalt fumbled just as badly, before he managed to grab him his ass and haul him even closer. His mouth was on fire, too sensitive to utter words, and he clung to Mercutio while swallowing convulsively.

They had no need of words, though, not when Mercutio made enough noise for a whole whorehouse while they rubbed against each other. The cloth he’d find too rough any other day was just what he needed now, a coarse contrast to the memory of smoothest steel that threatened to engulf him.

Mercutio came against him like a boy just discovering the pleasure of rubbing up against someone, flopping limbs and an unholy racket. Not that Tybalt performed much better, his orgasm wrenched from him with such force that he was left reeling against the wall.

As pleasure slowly drained from him, leaving behind a cooling stain in his drawers and the rising smell of sex from them both, the world should have righted around him. He should have… Tybalt’s mind remained blank; there was nothing in his experience to guide him to an appropriate course of action.

The knife dropped from Mercutio’s hand and clattered to the ground. A sound too real to ignore, it drained the moment of peace. 

Tybalt’s mouth still tasted of blood. He’d come in his pants, and the roof of his mouth stung, and he’d let. What he’d let, it was unspeakable. Unthinkable.

Squeezing his eyes shut against everything, Tybalt slowly brought his hand to his mouth. Then he recoiled. It smelled, he smelled, all of him stunk of Mercutio. He wiped the offending hand against his shirt, aware of a pressure building in his throat. He couldn’t swallow it down, couldn’t control the burning in his eyes though he pushed his other arm against his face, rubbing frantically. Shut up, he thought, don’t give him more, don’t, don’t you dare.

"Hey. Hey, Tybalt?"

Mercutio’s voice should be a familiar annoyance to focus on, but it only called forth images he couldn’t deal with – soft, naked skin on offer in whirling steam, then that devilish instinct, the (unseen, triumphant, gloating?) face which had invaded him, pierced him.

He gagged suddenly, spitting and coughing furiously. He rubbed his mouth until his lips hurt as much as the inside, he spat again. Perhaps he would’ve continued, but Mercutio slammed into him, no gentleness this time. This was familiar, and Tybalt lost himself in the struggle for a few glorious moments.

When Mercutio headbutted him, Tybalt flinched back, which cost him the pathetic battle. The next moment Mercutio’s wiry strength had caught him, a good grip on his arms while his eyes roamed over Tybalt, so that he must turn away or break.

"Just wanted to remind you," Mercutio said, too quickly, his words not sounding like the usual parade of crafted insults, "it’s your knife."

Tybalt glanced back at him. The urge to gag was still there, but in check for now.

"I’m not a slut; we’ve covered that." The corner of Mercutio’s mouth moved up, but it was a pallid imitation of his usual cocksure grin. He nudged the blade with his foot; Tybalt didn’t see it, but heard it scrape over stone. "Not a thief either. So…you know, ‘s your knife."

"Mine."

"That’s right." Mercutio stepped back, but kept his hands over Tybalt’s for a moment further. Squeezed once. "I think –"

"Fuck off," Tybalt said. He shuddered and Mercutio’s grip grew firmer around his hands, then let go. "Just go away."

"All right." Mercutio nodded, took a few steps back and looked down at himself with a rueful grin; he wore pale trousers, which hid nothing at all of what he’d been up to. "I thought I was too old to climb my uncle’s trellis at night," he said with a sigh.

"Go – "

"Going, going!"

When he heard steps carrying him away, Tybalt let his knees give way and slid down the wall. He felt as if someone had taken him apart, then put the pieces back together in the wrong order. His mouth pulsed with mild pain, in time with every heartbeat. He’d had worse hurt, from the same source even, yet nothing had ever unsettled him so.

"Hey, Tybalt!" Mercutio’s voice called and he looked up. The fool had made it to the next street lamp, and stood there, cupping his mouth as if he wanted to be sure to rouse the entire neighborhood. "Don’t forget your knife, will you?" Then, with a kiss thrown from two fingers, he turned tail and disappeared into the night.

It was nothing to laugh about. But…Tybalt stretched for the knife, fumbled a little before he managed to push the blade back inside the handle. He weighed it slowly in his hand. The stiletto had always been a thing he more felt that he _should_ have, rather than one he had any real use for. But maybe.

Maybe using his switchblade to wipe the mocking smirk off Mercutio’s face was as good as any use, whatever means he achieved it by.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, a comment would make my day =)
> 
> There may be additional parts, but if so, they'll be posted as new parts in the same series.


End file.
